Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

“Almost a miracle that they weren’t spotted by anyone else,” said Daeng. “The rescue flights. Trips back and forth to Spook City.”

“No more a miracle than escaping from a falling helicopter, madam,” said Civilai.

They sat beside the idyllic stream, a picture framed in fog, and drank tea from a thermos. It reminded Siri of a scene in an exotic calendar on the wall of some French matron. “Natives in the harsh jungle.”

“How do you think he survived out here?” Phosy asked.

“He was a marine,” said Daeng. “They train them for jungle warfare.”

“I doubt he’d ever come across anything like this in his training,” Siri told them.

Rhyme had almost all the pictures he needed. He called for just one more team photo, everyone lined up behind the rocks. They clambered to the far side and took up a pose like the grand explorers of the Tibetan highlands with the body of the slain yeti at their feet. The photographer stood as far back as he dared, aware that the smoke would make his pictures appear out of focus.

“I say, you,” Rhyme called out. “Would you mind standing up?”

The journalist was talking to Phosy who was on his knees reaching between the rocks. Peach translated but the distraction had already spoiled a very nice photograph. Now others were leaning over Phosy and watching as, from the narrow gap, he pulled a large plastic envelope fastened with bright yellow tape. Even Rhyme abandoned his post and went to look at the prize. Phosy didn’t wait for a consensus, he used his fake Swiss army knife to slice open the tape at the top of the envelope and tipped out the contents onto one of the rocks. It was an English language newspaper. He passed it to the American sergeant.

“It’s the Bangkok Post ,” Johnson told them.

“What on earth’s that doing here?” Civilai asked nobody in particular. “What’s the date?”

The question was met by a low whistle from Johnson.

“Well, this is weird,” said the American. “This newspaper is dated June second, 1978. A little over two months ago.”

“Ah,” Civilai laughed. “I remember something like this in France. Poisson d’Avril -April Fish. I can’t recall the exact date but it’s the day you play a joke on people just for fun. Our Politburo has something similar but theirs is every day of the year. Next thing you know somebody with a camera jumps out of the bushes and shouts, ‘Surprise! April Fish!’”

“It’s August,” Daeng reminded him.

“And I don’t see anyone laughing,” added Siri. “But I’d wager somebody’s playing a trick on all of us.”

“It’s possible the newspaper isn’t related to the rocks,” Commander Lit suggested.

“You mean like some local was sitting on a boulder reading a newspaper and it started raining so he put it in a plastic bag and stuck it down beside the rocks so he could finish it once he’d learned English?” Phosy said without looking at the security man.

“Actually, I meant that someone wanted us to find the newspaper so they left it in a place they knew we’d search,” said Lit in the direction of the same bank of fog.

“As opposed to leaving it in front of the hotel?”

“And have the old guards burn it to keep themselves warm. Good idea.”

“I do wish Dtui was here,” Daeng laughed. “Men can be so predictable.”

“I’m not predictable,” said Siri.

“I knew you’d say that.”

The Americans had split up the newspaper and were going through it page by page. Peach translated.

“An Australian journalist swam to Laos in scuba gear to rescue his Lao girlfriend,” she said.

“US abolishes import quota on Thai textiles,” read Johnson.

“A beauty competition for fat women,” said Bpoo. “What a civilized country.”

“OK,” said Peach. She’d picked up the sheet Randal Rhyme had just put down. He apparently missed the reference. “Laos gets a mention here in the editorial. I think this might be relevant.”

“Rumor has it that the Communist Lao government is in bed with her old nemesis, the USA,” she read. “Despite a massive push to establish cooperatives nationwide, the People’s Democratic Republic has found itself with a shortfall of 113,000 tons of rice as a result of last year’s drought. And who should step in to find that mere nine million dollars but Uncle Sam himself. What’s nine million compared to the fifty million they were pumping in per year during the war? On Wednesday, the Senate appropriations committee, under its new chairman, Senator Walter Bowry of South Carolina, approved a budget to help out one of the poorest countries in the world. It was, as the senator told a press conference with a straight face, “for humanitarian purposes.” The good gentleman went on to add that, “despite twenty years of hostility, the US bears no personal animosity toward the Pathet Lao.” Right. We at the Post doubt the congressman has any ill feelings at all considering the fact the gentleman’s family amassed a sizeable fortune from exports from the region during the second Indochinese war. We doubt it would do him any harm at all if that channel was reopened through this new detente.

“‘I am pleased to be in a position to assist the country in its hour of need in an official capacity,’ he told reporters. Good on you, senator. And we hope such a magnanimous gesture doesn’t damage your political standing given the anti-communist feelings in Washington. Let’s hope that nine million oiling will grease the wheels for the Lao to agree to the demands of the powerful MIA lobby. Wouldn’t that make Senator Bowry one popular gentleman on both sides of the globe.”

The teams sat around on the rocks and lobbed views and opinions back and forth. If this editorial were factually correct-and Rhyme pointed out that the Post was known to make things up every now and then, particularly when attacking communism-then two aspects of it were particularly relevant. Firstly, they’d underestimated the power of Boyd’s father, now the chair of the appropriations committee. If he’d been influential in releasing the funds for Laos, he had a vested interest in making sure things went well here. Then there was the fact that the senator had connections in the region and had apparently done very well financially during the Vietnam War. But, more importantly, and most baffling, if the budget was approved back before June 2, the photographs of the downed pilot and his tailplane must have arrived after that decision was taken. And, if that was so, the senator hadn’t put pressure on his committee because his son was a downed pilot. To the Lao, that kind of nepotism would have been easy to understand. But that last point made no sense to anybody.

“It might just be that the photos arrived earlier and they held back the announcement till after the committee’s decision,” said Civilai, ever aware of the subterfuge of government.

“Not possible,” said Johnson. “The incoming mail at the embassy is time and date stamped.”

“Then we would have to assume that the photographs were sent in response to the announcement,” said Siri.

“And what would be the point of that?” asked Rhyme.

“I have no idea.”

“What I’d like to know”-Johnson shook his head-“is what the congressman was importing from here that made him so goddamned rich. And I bet you it wasn’t coconuts.”

“All right.” Phosy clapped his hands as if he were frustrated with the direction the discussion was going. “Let’s come back to whoever it was who left the newspaper here. I suggest we take a hike back to the Phuan village. See if they remember seeing anyone around who shouldn’t have been here. Any objections?” He turned specifically to Commander Lit, who merely smiled.